He growls as he enters his chambers, throwing his armour into the corner as he heads to the bed. Sitting on the edge of it, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Idiots, the pair of them, expecting him to play nice with the gentry whilst they fight in the back room - and they really were idiots if they thought that he did not know where that had led to, with her rumpled hair and bright eyes.
He pulls himself off the bed to finish stripping, before padding over to the full length mirror, rubbing his face wearily. His gaze flickers over his reflection, basking in his scarred glory, and the all-too familiar sensation tugs at him. Dark eyes piercing through the hollow sockets connect with lean muscles, chiselled jawline, neat braided hair.. his breath still hitches as he takes stock of his abdomen.
He is quick – he always is, and the seed of his brief narcissistic moment flies across the mirror. As he turns away, he thinks of Celia, his betrothed.
"No more," he murmurs, falling to the bed. "No more."